


Strength

by elscorcho



Series: Triple Threat [2]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: M/M, Mild Painplay, Peter is of age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elscorcho/pseuds/elscorcho
Summary: “Pretend I’m helpless.”“Hard sell. I’ve seen you lift a Range Rover.  But I’ll use my imagination.” Wade punctuates with a kiss.“All three of them?” He can feel the boy smile against his mouth.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all who commented and gave kudos to "Side Effects!" This is a direct follow-up and exploration of the dynamic between Peter and Wade versus Peter and Cable. Hope you enjoy!

 

A busy night at Margaret’s, lousy with Tough Guys. The barkeep and owner, Weasel, swipes a fraying cloth around the interior of a drinking glass, maintaining a sharp eye on the swarthy lot.

 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use a crusty old cumrag for that.” 

 

“Thanks Wade, a little louder for the people in the back.” Weasel switches to another glass, squinting at the mercenary sitting opposite him. “Are you going to order? It’s not like the menu changes.”

 

“The usual sweet for my sweetie, barkeep.” Wade decides. “And a Yuengling for Daddy.” 

  
“Shirley Temple with a bendy straw and three maraschino cherries.” Weasel sets down the glass he’d just polished, reaching for the icebox. “Just a heads up. If you’re trying to look like a pedophile, it’s totally working.” 

  
“-ah, ah!” Wade’s muscled arm reaches across the bar, his finger wagging the ice away. “In a  _ clean _ glass,  _ per favore _ .” 

 

The finger is now jabbing up, at the highest row of glassware hanging above Weasel’s head, obviously for show and unused. It requires a stool to fetch. Weasel groans but complys, climbing toward it. 

  
“Bellissima, my friend.”   
  


Weasel grumbles and returns with a new, squeaky clean glass in hand. He fetches Wade’s beer, and slides it over, along with an equally chilly glare.

 

“Look at this guy, with his romance languages and  _ standards _ all of a sudden.”

 

Wade turns on his stool a few degrees to jerk his thumb toward the back of the bar. “Because I’ve got something worth treating right. See that? Right there. One-hundred-forty-two pounds of Grade-A Twink.” 

 

Weasel spares a glance at the head of brown curls, tucked behind a light fog of smoke, hand resting on his chin, the other occupied with his glowing cellphone.

 

“I see it. Still can’t believe it.” He shakes his head, pouring unmeasured ingredients together. 

 

“Tell me about it.” The mercenary watches juicy grenadine meet with tangy soda pop and crackle together. Too sweet, too perky to be consumed in this place. And yet.

 

‘It’s so  _ wrong _ .” Wade grins, giddy, thirsty, fingers itching to get his drinks and back to his booth, and his boy.  

 

“Speaking of which, does Margaret’s do catering for events? Because I’m thinking of having our wedding reception here. I see a nice buffet, laid out on the pool table, what do you think?-”

 

A veil of diluted sunlight pours in, across Weasel’s unamused face, then vanishes just as quickly. Wade turns in his seat to watch a man slowly and soundlessly prowl into the bar. There’s a grin on his scarred face when he swivels back, elbows on the counter and fingers steepled deviously.

 

“Fresh meat.” he deems. “Master Weasley, if you’d be so kind.”

 

Weasel sighs.

 

“A  _ rumjob _ , for the murderous brute who just walked in. Coming right up. Jesus, that one is even worse than the last.”

 

“And make it dirty.”

 

“Chocolate sauce. Dear god, you really have a death wish.”

 

Wade clinks his two drinks together, sauntering past tables of other lowlifes, tossing nods of recognition here and there as he makes his way back to his table. He reaches the far wall, boothed at one end with two chairs opposite. Peter, waiting, reaches for his drink with a tongue tip poking out.

 

“Yum-o-“

 

Wade pulls it back, bops him on the nose.

 

“Not yet, champ. This is  a victory drink.”

 

It takes two seconds for recognition to pull into the station, with a signalling whine.

 

“Wade, I’m  _ tired- _ ”

 

“Just a quickie.”

 

“It draws so much attention.”

 

“Mmhmm.” Wade agrees, throatily. 

 

Their legs knock beneath the table. The boy bites his lip, eyes locked with Wade’s, to conceal another sneaky reach for his tempting drink.

 

“Nope.” Wade tips it away from him. “First, let’s meet our contender…”

 

On cue, a drink that’s even girlier and more decorated than Peter’s is slammed on the table, tipping orange fizz over the oozing cocoa rim.

 

“Bartender said this fruity shit came from you.” Says the newcomer, roughly eighty percent tattoo, more menacing up close and looking none too flattered by the gesture.

 

“It sure did, big boy.”

 

“You got five seconds to explain.” He jerks his head at Peter.  “ Wiggle that ass to bar, get me a  _ real  _ drink. And some ice for your boyfriend. He’s gonna need it-”  ”

 

“He stays.” Wade tells him. “You sit.”

 

With a sharp kick, the chair opposite his wobbles out a foot. Wade gestures with an open, scarred palm.

 

“Step into my office. I’ve got a proposal.” Wade throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders and he trails a finger down his smooth cheek.  “ _ We’ve _ got a proposal, isn’t that right, sugar?”

 

The man regards the boy, who blinks at him slowly with an unreadable expression.

 

“Pretty whore.” He acknowledges. “But I don’t pay for sex.”

 

“A contest, my good man.” Wade’s voice rises in volume and importance, like an announcer with an arena full of spectators, which is somewhat true, on a different scale. His smirk is broad and the room is quiet, and the stranger realizes there may as well be a spotlight hovering over their table. Something about it compels him to stand out a little less and climb into the offered seat.

 

“Alright, Scarface.” he swallows down his uneasiness and half of Wade’s beer, and consequently misses the dangerous heat of Peter’s glare. “I came here to find a gig. But sure, I’ll whoop you and take your pocket change first. So what it’s gonna be? Darts? Pool?”

 

“Arm wrestling.” Wade’s grin is toothy, stretched.

 

The man looks agreeable, but eager to wrap it up and be on his way.

 

“As long you don’t cheat.“ He sneers. “Who knows what kind freakshow, lobster claw  you’ve got-”

 

“Not him, jerkwad.” Peter growls. “Me.”

 

The man, predictably, laughs.

 

“Oh, he’s serious.” Wade says.  “And if he wins, we get…everything in your wallet.”

 

“And what if there’s nothing in it?”

 

Wade shrugs. “Roll of the dice, I guess.”

 

“And if I win…” the stranger leers at Peter, makes a real show of it. “We wrestle. Back at my place.”

 

Wade sounds gleeful. “Ohh, double-meaning. Just so we’re clear here, you mean to say that if you win, you get to take my boy here to bed?”

 

The man nods, downing the last of Wade’s beer and lashing his tongue across his teeth. “That’s what I mean.”

 

“Toss his salad? Stick your pole in his hole?”

 

The man briefly adjusts himself in his pants before rolling up his sleeve, absently confirming. 

 

“The sooner the better, let’s go.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. He’s wearing a t-shirt with an algebra pun, no sleeve-rolling necessary. There’s a huff of annoyance and the drag of his chair as he pulls it forward. A second sound of displeasure to rival the last, as he realizes he has to kneel to meet the height of his sparring partner, who is indeed a beast of a man.

 

Peter’s small hand threads into the other, completely, laughably engulfed.

 

“I’ll be gentle.” The man reassures, mocking.

  
“ _ I _ won’t.”  Peter’s lip curls, fist tightens. “Wade, count it down.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Looks like **you’ll** be needing that ice… _pal._ ”

 

Wade is swaying-laughing, arm looped about Peter’s hips as he mimics his companion’s pitch in a dramatic retelling of the rumble moments ago. They’re nearly out of the bar, ducking out through the side entrance while the shamed contender, down forty-two dollars, nurses a bruised ego and to a lesser extent, ouchie in his arm.

 

“One day,” Wade is even more animated once they’re outside, fresh air cooling his exhilarated skin. “I want to see you go full on _Terminator._ Naked barfight. Stolen motorcycle. Please?”

 

“Mmm...nah.” Peter stretches against the building so his shoulders and elbows make contact with the brick behind him. The rest of his body arches appealingly, luring the other man forward.

 

Wade purses his lips together, cards his fingers through the freshly washed curls at Peter’s forehead, his other arm braced against the wall, over Peter’s head.

 

“Ok, what about the armwrestling scene in _The Fly_? Wicked compound fracture.”

 

Peter lifts his chin, leaning into the touch, which is now a barely-there brush down his temple and cheek.

 

“Mister, you’ve got the wrong bug.”

 

“Some _Neighborhood Menace_ you are.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Fake News.”

 

“ _Alternative Facts_.” Wade leans in and laughs against Peter’s neck, feels the gentle vibration of his low humming response, the shift of his body hoisting itself up to firmly wrap his legs around Wade’s middle. The force of it makes the bricks at Peter’s back let loose a few stony crumbs.  

 

Wade draws back, amused.

 

“Thought you said you were tired?”

 

Peter closes his eyes with a content little wiggle. “I am. Hold me up.”

 

His eyes, heavy and lidded, flash brightly.  “Pretend I’m helpless.”

 

“Hard sell. I’ve seen you lift a Range Rover.  But I’ll use my imagination.” Wade punctuates with a kiss.

 

“All three of them?” He can feel the boy smile against his mouth.

 

Wade pulls back again and deliberates. “And what about you? Corn-fed country boy, fresh off the Greyhound, looking to make it in the Big Apple?”

 

Peter authorizes the choice. “Sure am. I heard, if you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere.”

 

“Oh, we’ll make it. Anywhere _and_ everywhere.” He levels the boy higher, eye-to-eye, catching and pulling apart a tight cheek in each hand.

 

“Start spreading the news, Baby Boy-”  

 

The door beside them bangs open, wood laced with toxic lead paint splinters against the side of the building, and Wade leaps back to reflexively shield Peter, who just barely manages not to scurry up the wall.

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Weasel emerges, brandishing a broom. “I’m tired of hosing a pound of jizz off these bricks every time you idiots run your little scam. First you trash my office, then you move on to the roof - yeah, I know that’s you. Mexican takeout wrappers everywhere, almost failed my last health inspection! And that guy you just humiliated? Got so pissed he smashed through the top of my vintage _Kiss_ pinball machine-“

 

“Sounds like we did you a favor-“

 

“Shoo! Go hump at a Wendy’s or something!!”

 

He bats at them with the dirty straw head like alley cats in heat and they screech and flee, hopping a fence ahead. Now they’re farther down, along a dim sidestreet, where they linger like ghouls. Its seven p.m. and nearly night but not quite dark enough for Wade’s tastes, who wishes the hood of his sweatshirt were more encompassing. Luckily, Peter isn’t keen on getting out in the open, either.

 

“I’m suiting up.” He says, perching on an upturned crate to rummage through his ubiquitous Jansport backpack. “Mister Stark says I’m distracted, lately, and-”

 

“Uh oh...” Wade laughs, feigning intimidation.

 

“-If he knew _you_ were the reason…”

 

Wade mimics Tony’s gesture of holding out a palm and emitting a repulsor beam, switching to emulate the sad soul on the other end, collapsing.

 

Peter rifles through his belongings, leaving his web shooters, newly calibrated, at the bottom. His mask is what he’s after, and he uses the edge of his t-shirt to clean a smudge off the lens, huffing moist air on the surface and repeating in tiny squeaky circles.

 

“Recon work at an Oscorp facility. You in, Red?”

 

“Love to, except, I’m kind of… _persona non grata_ in all five counties.”

 

“Oh.” Peter says, terrible at hiding his disappointment.  “That sucks.”

 

“Still, it’s nice to be wanted.”

 

“Being on a wanted poster isn’t quite the same thing.” Peter toes some gravel with his dingy sneaker, before shyly offering: “So, uh, as long as you’re hiding out, I guess you can go ahead and use my Netflix account…if you want. But make your own profile!” He remembers to add. “So you don’t mess up my viewing order of Frasier.”

 

Wade gasps, bites his lip and makes a trembling heart shape with his fingers, and mouths, “ _You complete me.”_

 

Now, there’s the matter of doing what he can to help, in lieu of his fugitive status.

 

“Oscorp, huh?”

 

Peter nods, moving on to the next lens of his mask.

 

“Yeah, totally off the map, super secret.”

 

“Need some backup? Cable-”

 

“Cable doesn’t like me.”

 

“Well shucks, why don’t you pass him a note during study hall? Circle yes if you _like_ like me.”

 

”Don’t you think it’s weird he never comes along on missions? I just thought, after we...”

 

Wade leers, moving toward Peter so that his crotch is positioned at eye level.

 

“That you’d have not one, but _two_ hung studs at your beck and call?” He teases, lifting Peter’s chin with his index finger. “Didn’t your priest tell you that greed is a sin, little boy?”

 

Peter blushes, thankful there's no one around, and acutely aware of the need to stick to shady backstreets when they’re together, given the mercenaries filthy mouth.

 

“What if he’s uncomfortable with the fact we, you know, see each other around? Like it was okay when it was a one night stand, but not-”

 

“Trust me, the guy isn’t wringing his hands over a little threeway.” Wade taps a cigarette out of its pack, sticks it between his lips. “He’s sorta _been around_.”

 

“That’s true.” Peter agrees, although, that’s precisely what he misses. Cable’s mystery, his experience. That cool, unbothered demeanor is a perfect compliment to Wade’s….everything. Both men are intense, but in completely different ways. Like two opposing flavors that manage not to compete on the tongue, but enhance one another and make a satisfying, rounded meal.

 

Peter wets his lips.

 

Okay, he might be a _little_ greedy.   

 

“I’ll text him before I go.” He decides, pulling out his cellphone, typing and deleting inadequate lines of text while Wade draws back to the wall once again, lights his cig and quietly observes thin, practiced fingers fly across the screen, clean round teeth worry at a soft lower lip. Peter’s stress is clear.

 

Not that Wade isn’t enjoying his own inner conflict over their group dynamic, but unlike Peter, he sure as hell isn’t going to show it. Instead he swallows it down with a bitter lungful of scalding smoke.  

 

The thought of Spider-Man and Cable working together without him isn’t cause for a parade, and knowing that Peter misses the other man doesn’t exactly tickle him pink, but safety takes priority over pettiness, and he’d prefer to have someone keep an eye on the boy, who’s been increasingly reckless lately (can’t imagine why.)

 

And since the spider is hell bent on doing things without the knowledge of his mentor Tony Stark, ruling out anyone who would rat to the Tin Man, Wade’s rolodex of Supers is pretty slim. Hell, the list of people who wouldn’t hang up on him outright is meager to begin with.

 

“Sent.” Peter finishes, holding out his hand. “Ball’s in his court.”

 

“Speaking of balls.” Wade tugs Peter up and flat against him, hand splayed against the small of his back, right above the generous little swell of his butt. “Wanna sit in my lap and pulverize mine?”

 

“I hope that’s a figure of speech.”

 

“Let’s go to the roof and find out.” Wade suggests, mounting Peter’s back, who lets out a little “ooof!” and grumbles at this burden.

 

“I wonder what it would take to get Mister Stark to fit you with a propulsion system.” Peter lurches, briefly, but stabilizes soon enough.

 

“And miss out on my favorite Disneyland ride?” Wade becomes an inchworm, limbs practically looping twice around his midsection, to prepare for takeoff.

 

“The Spider-Man ride is at Universal.”

 

“Not that one. Think happy thoughts, Peter Pan!” Wade grandly waves a finger in the air, as they go vertical,.

 

Peter’s grumbling intensifies, but he’s eager to blow off some steam before hours of dull warehouse staking, so begins the quick scale up, and then a few skips over to the rooftop of Margaret’s, dumping Wade unceremoniously once he’s there. He takes in the scene, lightly fogged in the dusk but visibly cluttered with rubbish, just as Weasel had said.

 

“Do you want ants? Because this is how you get ants.”

 

“Hold your tongue, boy.” Wade pulls his hood down, clasps Peter’s narrow hips. “Watch what you say about my office.”

 

“Office...”

 

“You said you’d do anything for the lead role?”

 

“Oh! Right, where’s your….casting couch-“ Peter wiggles his eyebrows, nestling deeper into Wade’s solid arms.

 

The older man favors him with a wry and peculiar look.

 

“What?” Peter asks him.

 

“Much as I love this  innocent, babe-in-the-woods act,” Wade suggests. “Maybe we should play to your….strengths, for a change.”

 

“You wanna ‘wrassle?” Peter bumps their hips together.

 

“In a one-sided, praying mantis sort of way, yeah.”

 

Now Peter is doubly confused and his face is a reflection of that.

 

“Maybe I should just paint you a picture, like an erotic Bob Ross.”

 

Then Wade takes both of Peter’s hands. It’s so sweet and unexpected, a pretty tune plays over all of the alarm bells screaming in the far distance, and Peter can only peer up at him, dopily.

 

Then Wade’s hands tighten, his eyes glaze and he goes to that place Peter can never follow, and sirens blare like a soviet era nuclear drill.

 

“I want you to stop holding back. I want...to drag this feeble meatsack back to my shithole apartment and fuse together, bone-by-bone, bleeding all over the couch, my torso all fractured and squishy but it doesn’t matter, you know why? Because all I can think about is how sexy you looked on top of me, the prettiest goddamn thing that’s ever squatted on my dick - which by the way, you’ve mashed until it resembles a tube of ground liverwurst.”

 

Then he shrugs, looking earnest as can be.

 

“I’m a simple man.”

 

Peter’s pitch finds a brand new octave. “ _Cheese and crackers-_ ”

 

“Peter.” Wade’s touch is far too soft on his cheek to be saying the things he’s saying. “I’ve been maimed and reborn in half the alleys in this city. Right over there-” He points to a space behind two dented trash cans, “I fought a stray dog who thought my scalp was a ham steak. Did you really think my interests would include Long Walks on the Beach and Nicholas Sparks novels?.”

 

Peter looks green, and Wade knows he’s gone too far.

 

“We’ll put a pin in it, alright? Or maybe just play a round of paintball.  Something nice and manly and aggressive, without the gore. Sound good?” That gentle hand pets Peter’s hair. And then it’s gone, and Peter feels like hyperventilating for some reason and then Wade fucking leaves, heads elsewhere on the roof, like he didn’t just throw all that twistedness in the air.

 

“You thirsty?” Wade asks, absently. “I think I left a few Capri Suns up here – “

 

“Am I _thirsty_?”

 

Wade turns back around, and Peter is closer than where he’d left him, beguilingly incredulous.

 

“ _That’s_ what you ask me, after... _after_ …”

 

Wade’s grin nearly cracks his face in half.

 

Peter pushes Wade harder than intended, and admittedly it wouldn’t have accomplished much if it weren’t for all the clutter on the roof, tripping Wade backward, but there he lands, on his back, and Peter finds it’s a good look, all the smart words knocked out of him, all big and dumb and desperate for him and now Peter is the one doing the mounting.

 

Wade thrills at the curious mix of unyielding power and lack of considerable weight that makes up Peter Parker. It’s like the boy is a force, or a dream. Peter’s soft, heather t-shirt is drawn over his torso. All the dips that empty into planes of soft skin and back around, over curves of scaled-down muscle, are very flesh-and-blood.

 

Each time they’re together, Wade develops an affinity for a delicious new cut. Not to make Peter sound like a shank of beef hanging on a hook, but damn, those tight little muscles are no joke.

Today, it’s his biceps, swollen and shapely, straining, because Wade isn’t toning it down, he’s really giving it.

 

“Now you listen.” Peter growls, slamming Wade’s head back, taking both of his wrists in a single hand.

 

Again, Wade tries to resist, but even with both arms, it’s impossible. This twink with the face and curls of a renaissance angel and proportions of a Jack Russell has the upper hand, and its spectacular.

“I’m not drawing blood.” Peter lays out the rules, as cleanly, calmly as he lays out Wade. He shimmies out of his jeans and underwear, then moves to roll down Wade’s loose sweatpants, leaving his top on but mottled heaving abs exposed. “But I can’t promise I won’t do some minor internal damage, if you’re going to - _fight_ \- like this.” He shoves him down again, a few cracks spider across the concrete beneath them.

 

“And your safeword is Rapunzel, by the way.”

 

Wade grins. _Tangled_ , the first move they had watched together.

 

Banking on his powerful haunches this time, Wade tries to sit up and take Peter with him, throw him off that way, but just as warned, the boy uses his knobby knees to dig into his sides, like some kind of lovehandle Vulcan death grip and holy fuck, it feels like ten thousand side-stitches in gym class.

 

Lower half numb thanks to that maneuver, Peter gets to work, and soon Wade is hissing at the nip of cool air against the pearling glans of his cock.

 

“Now I’m glad I set the bar so high. I figured we’d meet somewhere in the middle.” He watches the boy do what he does, and grins wide and Cheshire, pausing to groan as Peter spits on him coarsely, combing saliva through Wade’s heavy precome with nimble fingers and using the mixture on his own hole, to prepare.

 

“This isn’t even close to my middle.” The boy warns. He positions himself and in order to get all the bits and bobs where he wants them to be, he has to jerk up, against the bottom of Wade’s ribcage, like a violent Heimlich.

 

“Oh, _fuck_.” Point made.

 

Wade can feel himself bottom out, deep inside of Peter, something snap-crackle-pop in the ‘ol lumbar region, and a self inflicted bite to the lip dripping loose a few rivulets of warm blood down his chin.

“Do that again, but aim for a vital organ this time.”

 

Peter settles, bouncing experimentally, and it’s difficult to sass back when there’s a thick cock burrowing deep into your guts, nudging your prostate, so he moans, soft and desperate instead.

 

Wade realizes his wrists have been released (too soon, but oh well) and runs his freed hands across Peter’s tight belly, up his chest and back down his sides to rest on his hips. The boy’s ass is like a blood pressure cuff the moment before release, only it doesn’t let up, it tightens in throbbing fractions as he finds his pleasure on Wade’s cock, desperate for release and something more – desperate to show him up. Blood is hammering in Wade’s ears, and he knows he’s dangerously close. To dying, asphyxiating, coming? All of the above?.

 

“Ride my face,” Wade implores. “Waterboard me with your sweaty thighs until I pass out!”

 

“Do I look like wedding DJ?” Peter continues to grind, lazy, hips rolling forward as he slaps Wade’s hands off his thighs. “No requests.”

 

And suddenly, there's nothing to press against and nothing inside of him. They’re both airborne, clinging to each other with outstretched limbs until they’re unable to.

 

And because gravity’s a thing, they’re sprawled on the ground a moment later, in a room that Peter recognizes as the back office of the bar, where he first had sex with Wade and hadn't been permitted to enter since. But now everything matches the broken table and sofa. The roof, in pieces, a filing cabinet with yellowed folders toppled on its side, belched out contents whirling in the air. Wood, cement, pink scratchy fiberglass scattered beneath their bodies, in uncomfortable crevices specifically.

 

And Peter’s embarrassed to say, this isn’t even in the top five most embarrassing ways Weasel has seen him naked.

 

Wade is in a sitting position; arms propped behind him and half mast cock wondering what the hell is going on, against his thigh. Peter is hiding behind his hands, legs tucked against his chest, trying to avoid the burst pipe arching chilly water a foot away.

 

Weasel makes a series of choked noises, eyes bulging and blood vessels straining against his neck.

 

Wade casually reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulls out and lights another cigarette and scans the room.

 

“Hey, this dump needed remodeling anyway.”  


	3. Chapter 3

Peter is thinking about all of the men in his life. The living, the dead, the ones that straddle a bit of both.

 

What else is there to do, when you’re sitting alone at night, a frigid steel beam under your (exquisitely sore) ass, in the decaying rafters of a dodgy old warehouse you suspect is an evil lair?

 

Not that Peter needs a chaperone. But, you know, _hypothetically_ , if there _were_ a set warm shoulders rubbing against his, a pair of patient ears bending to his chatter, who might they be attached to?

 

The memory of Wade and his broad, muscled arms pinned to the ground blurs all others. The smell of blood and gunpowder, his desperate hands, gentle and reverent, clutching and praying at the altar of Peter’s hips, whispering _Angel_ as he begs to be dragged through the flames. An unstable man pinned to an unstable roof, sanity cracking apart like fifty year old ceiling tile. .

 

Precisely the type of suitor Uncle Ben would have warned against, and the kind of monster his father would swear, at his bedside, to protect him from when Peter was small and the world was made up of boogie-men. He’d seen these fiends as slobbering, hungry and crude, looking to gobble up tasty boys. The reality was not that far flung.

 

A text message flashes, a blinking alert in the corner of his phone and Peter blinks with it, clearing his head.

* * *

 

                       Nathan: stillthere?

 

Peter: Yeah

 

Peter: Bored (A string of snoring emojis follows.)

 

                       Nathan: comig

 

* * *

 

 So…Peter has a date. And a good excuse to shift his thoughts from the baffling degenerate he’s been sleeping with.

 

Not that Cable is the picture of normalcy. He _could_ be even worse. The guy has seen dinosaurs, the Inquisition and a future where our brains are crammed into microchips, and according to Deadpool, has amassed quite a menagerie of kinks and toys in his travels. Like Deadpool had said:

 

 _“He’s sorta_   _been around_.”

 

Could Peter really expect to satisfy a man with that kind of _breadth_ of experience under his belt?

 

He adjusts himself on the beam, feeling a bit hot around the spandex, not to mention chafed.

 

The itchy bit is Tony Stark’s fault, to speak of another intimidating futurist. Peter has been wearing a cutting-edge prototype that’s cutting into _his_ edges. But the nano-technology stitched through his suit is nowhere near as uncomfortable as the intimate fitting had been.  

 

_“How’s that? Not too snug?”_

_Peter has to remind himself that he isn’t dreaming. He’s standing on the raised platform in the center of Iron Man’s showcase room, feeling like he’s on display, surrounded by Tony’s dormant fleet, lit up and staged behind glass. He’s suited up impressively, albeit abrasively, but he feels like one of Stark’s prized creations and it makes him flush._

_Compounding this is Tony, on his knees, at Peter’s feet, like a tailor, tugging at fabric around the inseam of Peter’s inner thigh._

_Peter swallows, willing all the blood in his body to stay the hell away from his lower half._

_“Its….it’s great Mister Stark.”_

_“You sure?”_

_“Like a glove, sir.”_

_“Alright then.” Stark rises back to his two inches above Peter’s head, giving the younger a little departing pat on the rump and now, yeah, Peter is definitely stiff. Tony flicks the air, bringing up the blueprints of the next order of business, some kind of web-shooter upgrade. Peter mumbles something about a draft in the room and throws on an oversized sweatshirt that covers up troublesome parts._

 

_Peter had lost a father and a male guardian all before puberty. It wasn’t his fault that the next parental male influence to roll in at fifteen was his idol and crush, the focus of his first masturbation fodder (Popular Science, July 2014 edition. And yes, he did read the article afterward.)_

_That very man is now staring at him, in the very lab profiled in that article, with a wry glint in his eye. “I see the gangster look is back in style.”_

 

_“Huh?” Peter looks down at himself. “Oh this. Um…”_

_Wade’s smell clings to the thick cotton bundled around his body._

_Just an hour ago the mercenary had eaten him out like Thanksgiving Dinner. In an alley, deliberately located with the top of Stark Tower framed, in view, ahead of them. Peter panted and stared at the high, sparkling windows, gasping as Wade’s tongue slipped up inside him._

_“Not until you come, Baby Boy.” Wade retreated and growled, biting a plump cheek, flattening his tongue, licking his opening and watching it quiver and furl._

_“Afraid the Boss Man is going to be angry with you?”_

_He slicked up three fingers, worked them into Peter’s hole like he had a job to do. He kissed Peter quiet before he could answer to prevent further delay, feeling up his prostate with rough fingertips, wringing a hasty, whining orgasm from him._

_Afterward, Ward pulled up Peter’s trousers, steered the dazed boy forward and kissed his flushed cheeks and wordless mouth and gave him the last thing his overheated body needed._

_“Here,” A big, tacky Monster Energy drink themed sweatshirt. “All that iron can get a little chilly.”_

_The last contact they had before Peter stumbled into the daylight was a brisk pat to the bottom._

_“Go on. “Mister Stark” is waiting.”_

_Peter’s feeling very warm at the memory, and very worried that Tony can see what he’s thinking, or smell the recent debauchery on his skin._

_Luckily, the older man moves in a different direction._

_“It’s alright, I went through some fashion blunders in my time…don’t Google any pictures of me in the eighties. But really, Parker, if you want to stop cuffing your jeans and duct taping your sneakers, get some duds that fit, just say the word, I’ll get Horatio in here to hook you up.” He tugs at the strings around Peter’s neck and the boy’s Adam’s apple visibly bobs._

_“I’ll let you know, Sir.”_

_“Alright, kid.”_

_And Tony is gone; the smell of his expensive cologne competes with Wade’s underlying musk that hugs him, possessively. The inventor has moved to his next task and tinkers at a workstation, while Peter gets his breathing back under control._

_“Could use some help over here.” He says, without lifting his head. He’s wearing protective goggles and another pair dangles from the hand that isn’t flicking at floating screens._

_“Coming, sir!”_

Headlights flash below, passing window after window, a pattern of bright and black squares. Peter tenses tight as a van pulls around the back of the warehouse. He watches carefully as it parks and the interior lights turn on. Shuffling is seen in the front seat, some paper, possibly a map. Another minute and the ignition is humming again, the lights are killed and the car departs.

Peter feels relief flow through him, it’s almost numbing. He’s really hoping that this is the extent of what he encounters. Lost travelers and weather balloons.

 

Empty-handed is, for once, the ideal bounty tonight.  

 

Just to make things interesting, on top of Deadpool and Cable and Mister Stark, and the ghosts of past guardians, frowning from on high with disapproval, there’s…a boy, thrown in the mix.

 

They met at school. Harry Osborne waltzed in slowmo like a bad teen movie, model-handsome, expensive clothes.

 

Peter can’t recall what he did to get his attention. First, an invite to sit with him at lunch, then to study at his penthouse apartment, then out to a movie, a flirtatious extension that still hangs in the air. Peter has been playing it coy, but he understands there’s an expiration date where that’s concerned.

 

There’s a little snag he needs to get of the way, a misgiving or two that complicates things enormously. Harry’s father, uber-wealthy Norman Osborne may or may not be an evil supervillian, conducting business in this very warehouse.

 

Peter’s phone blinks again.

 

* * *

 

                      Wade: is cable there?

 

Peter: soon

 

* * *

Deadpool responds with a bushel (?) of suggestive eggplants.

 

Peter relaxes, lays flat against the beam with legs swinging and waits for the next message.

* * *

 

                      Wade: maybe hell show you his holodeck

 

                      Wade: he smuggled one from the future

 

Peter: sure

 

                     Wade: yeah its in his basement

 

                     Wade: his favorite is king and servant boy roman bath simulation

 

                    Wade: emperor hadrian and antinous 4 all u history buffs

                    Wade: limber up and bring the good olive oil

* * *

 

Then he fires off a parade of hearts. And Peter finds that he really wants to confide in Wade, tell him all about Harry, since he appears pretty liberal about the whole thing. Surely, he’d understand Peter’s desire to date someone…normal? Someone age appropriate, someone he could be seen with, in public, who made him feel special but in a blissfully human way, without the demands and expectations of being enhanced.

 

But who is he fooling? If Harry were normal and without risk, Peter wouldn’t even _be_ here.

 

He can just imagine what Wade would say about the cocky boy who’s never wanted for anything, dogged by the expectations of a distant father, the media. Wary of sycophants, afraid that no one could really care for him, only concerned about getting close to his wealth. A young man who oozes charisma in person but privately wrestles with a metric ton of darkness.

 

 _“Nice. Like dating Tony Stark, without the Daddy issues.”_ He can see the smirk twisting Wade’s face into new dimensions of glee.

 

Yeah, no thanks. He’ll just keep this little secret.

 

Peter rolls on to his belly, grunting, bored. Cable sure is taking his time, but then time is pretty relative to him. Clearly, Peter isn’t a priority, not that he expects to be.

 

His phone vibrates in his hand. It’s Wade, but he doesn’t read it this time, suddenly frustrated. Why does it always come back to Wade? Because he can’t shut up and his commentary boxes are contagious, or because he’s actually meant to be the focus? 

 

He flops back. Ignores Wade’s text and looks up weekend show times at the cinema.

 

If this stakeout gives the all-clear and he and Harry become an item…then Peter will find himself the focus of intense and violating press coverage. Half of a famous power-couple followed everywhere.

 

No big deal.

 

Ugh.

 

Peter groans, thumbing the front of his phone to dim it black, sitting upright and scrubbing at his eyes.

These men and their fifty shades of dysfunction, their uncanny similarities and the miles and miles of red flags between them are a distraction. Their beautiful eyes and talented hands, filthy irritating mouths, protectiveness and generosity and brilliance, their tragic pasts and flaws he wants to tinker with and fix like a discarded PC hard drive.

 

Peter discovers, then, how fatal daydreaming can be. He doesn’t realize that law enforcement has approached until its right on top of him.

 

A strange silent helicopter, oily black, flaps above and unlike the movies, there are no blinding spotlights shedding a UFO halo around him. It isn’t rattling up pieces of the old warehouse, fluffing the bushes and grass below. Engineering wise, Peter can’t help but wonder at it. The vehicle spits out some men in head-to-toe black who descend on their tethers toward him. Peter had chosen this spot to sit, right beneath a gaping, ragged hole in the roof. Serves him right for wanting to enjoy the moonlight and get a rare look at the stars several miles outside the light pollution of the city.

 

Were these Norman Osborne’s men? Bummer.

 

“Hey guys….nice night. Get a load of that Waning Gibbous…” Peter rises into a crouch, as one of them lands on his beam a few yards away.

 

“Quiet, dirtbag.”

 

“Dude, harsh…”

 

If these guys really are Oscorp, it’s worse than Peter had suspected. The weapons they’re holding do _not_ look legal and due process is a thing, buddy.

 

Someone drops behind him and slaps a metal collar around his neck.

 

“What…what is this?” Peter gasps. His entire body feels like it’s come down with the flu, tired and overexerted, like the last three years of crime fighting, every punch, every fall, decided to catch up with him all at once. He shoots a web, but without the energy to propel with it, the fiber hangs there useless. His hands cramp up and release the strand of webbing as well as his phone.  

 

The first man is now just as close, in front of him, and he’s sandwiched between threats. Peter’s hands have been yanked behind his back and he’s brought to his knees. He struggles, with a feebleness that takes him back to the days of getting swirlies after gym class, coming home and ducking, speed-walking into his room before Aunt May can see the bruises under his eyes. When he kept his head down and ran from danger, not toward it. He wants to run from it now.

 

His head is slammed against the beam and everything goes swimmy. He can taste blood in his mouth, ooze past his lips and soak through the left side of his mask and he can hear the smirk in one of the men above him, bearing him down.

 

“End of the line, _Deadpool_.”


End file.
